


Ithildin and Silmë

by YouBlitheringIdiot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, I don't know how to tag it, LOTR characters - Freeform, M/M, Marauders era, Some middle earth characters, Violence, i.e Éowyn and Wormtongue, it's middle earth but with the marauders, referenced canjy, referenced homophobia and child abuse, referenced jily, remus is Éowyn, same warnings as canon, sirius is faramir, wolfstar, written in LOTR style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24213277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouBlitheringIdiot/pseuds/YouBlitheringIdiot
Summary: Seated on a low chair at his father’s left hand, Sirius watched as Orion’s dark mood deepened. His father was angry, he could see the agitation, displeasure, disdain written across his once handsome face. There was naught new in this, his father had long preferred his younger brother, Regulus. Regulus, the dutiful son, who had always bent to his father’s will. Regulus, whose seat at Orion’s right hand now lay empty.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 23
Kudos: 24





	Ithildin and Silmë

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueEagle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEagle/gifts).



> This is for the gorgeous BlueEagle, my bestie, who's been through a lot recently and working hard in the NHS. I think you are incredible, strong, and my irl Moony to my Lily! I hope you like it (hiding!!)

**_Characters:_ **

_Sirius Black – Faramir_

_Regulus Black – Boromir_

_Orion Black – Denethor_

_Minerva – Gandalf_

_James Potter/Prongs – Aragorn/Strider_

_Remus Lupin – Éowyn of Rohan_

_Frank Longbottom – Éomer of Rohan_

_Peter Pettigrew/Wormtail – Grima/Wormtongue_

_Fenrir – (or Vanargand) a monstrous wolf in Norse Mythology_

_George – Pippin_

_Fred – Merry_

_Lily Evans – Arwen_

_Bellatrix - Witch-King of Angmar_

_The Horcrux – The One Ring_

_Voldemort - Sauron_

_Kadavra Breath – the Black Breath_

_Wolfsbane – wulfsbane_

_Werewolf - gaur_

_Ithildin - extremely refined Mithril, so thin that it could be used to write special runes, known as_ _moon-letters, enchanted so that it only appeared in moonlight or starlight_ _and could be enchanted further so that it would never appear except on a specific phase of the moon etc_

**_Notes:_ **

**_This is my first-time writing a cross-over fic, I have no idea how this is meant to work. I have never read a cross-over fic, aside from once reading a Jily/The 100 cross-over. The only reason I have attempted to write this (badly, I fear!) is because my bestie BlueEagle asked me to try a LOTR/HP cross-over! I hope you like it, it is very, very mediocre, lol, but at least I tried!_ **

**_The way I imagined it here is: the setting is definitely Middle Earth, the style of writing is attempted LOTR, but some of the characters have been replaced by those from the Marauders’ Era of Harry Potter and some of the magic is from the Harry Potter universe too. So, for example, Faramir acts like Sirius Black would have done if he had been in his place. I am not trying to imply, at all, that these characters in any way resemble those of Middle Earth, in fact these two in particular are very different, even though I love them both very much. But that is the way I have written it, don’t be too harsh, I will now go and read a few of these types of fics (which must exist) and cringe!!!_ **

**_I have directly quoted some lines from the Lord of The Rings and one from the Harry Potter books._ **

**Ithildin and Silmë**

Seated on a low chair at his father’s left hand, Sirius watched as Orion’s dark mood deepened. His father was angry, he could see the agitation, displeasure, disdain written across his once handsome face. There was naught new in this, his father had long preferred his younger brother, Regulus. Regulus, the dutiful son, who had always bent to his father’s will. Regulus, whose seat at Orion’s right hand now lay empty. His father, the Ruler of Gondor, had turned his heart against him from the time he had dared to question him, from the time Orion had learnt that Sirius excelled in music and dancing, not just in swordsmanship, from the time Sirius had found the courage to speak out against his ruthlessness and injustice. Gondor stood not for the avarice and schemings of Orion, Sirius thought, it stood for honour, and high valour, and he could not bear to stand silent and watch them diminish. 

Furthermore, he had courted disaster by returning the affections of Caradoc Dearborn, the dashing son of a blacksmith. Fearing Orion’s rage, he had tried to flee the city with him, unsuccessfully. He was but sixteen years old at the time. Vainly had he hoped to reach Ithilien, or even Rohan, travelling in disguise. Orion’s private Guard pursued him. The Blacksmith’s son had evaded capture – seeing his father’s men approaching, Sirius had revealed himself with much flourish, and challenged them to a swordfight, thus affording Caradoc the chance to vanish into the wilderness. Narrowly had he escaped with his own life, so savage had the beating been that Orion had subjected him to. Thrown into the dungeons, he lay unrecognised by his own men, a false charge of treason against him. But for the swift intervention of Minerva, the ancient witch, the executioner’s axe would have fallen as he awaited death, blindfolded and kneeling, yet unrepentant.

How Minerva had persuaded his father to relent he never learned, likely she had threatened to reveal secret wrongdoings, Sirius guessed. But while Orion had spared his life, he had never forgiven him. He no longer trusted Minerva, or Mithrandir as she was known in Gondor, he was no longer privy to her wise counsel, and had ordered Regulus to avoid all dealings with her. Now the disowned heir to the House of Black, Sirius bore his father’s hatred as well as his character allowed, still refusing to remain silent when reason and experience dictated that he must. Orion poured all his hope and energy into Regulus, and over the years had groomed him for sovereignty, placing him in charge of his mighty armies, and had sending him forth on the recent quest to Rivendell. No news had returned whence to the White Citadel. Until now. The cloven horn of Regulus lay at his father’s feet.

Regulus was dead.

The Horcrux beyond Orion’s grasp, his chance to seize it squandered by Sirius.

As his father approached him, Sirius flinched involuntarily. He watched his father’s lip curl, as though to ridicule his sign of weakness. All the rejection, loneliness, grief, guilt at his brother’s untimely passing rising to the surface, like the great wave emerging from the sea in his dreams, threatening inescapable darkness.

“You wish then,” said Sirius. “That our places had been exchanged?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Stir not the bitterness in the cup I have prepared for myself! I wish that, yes. I may be old, but I am not yet dotard!” Orion sneered coldly, eyeing him with contempt, before resuming his pacing.

Sirius clenched his jaw tightly and remained still, a tall, straight figure, unbowed. Verily he would willingly have traded places with his brother, died in his stead, his grief more closely aligned to his father’s than Orion guessed.

“What news from Osgiliath? Will the garrison hold?” Orion said, offhandedly, as though he had not wished death on his only remaining, disgraced heir.

“I have sent a company from Ithilien to strengthen it, but it is not robust,” Sirius answered, digging his nails into the palms of his hand, lest any emotion reach his voice.

“Great might is drawing out from the Black Gate,” said Prince Imrahil, looking at Sirius with concern. “We cannot afford to lose a host. We do not know if the Rohirrim will come to our aid.”

“Of that I am well aware, but much must be risked in war. I say that we should not lightly abandon the Rammas. I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought,” Orion said, looking at the Council gathered around him, as though awaiting a reply.

Silence followed the Lord Orion’s words. It was clear that the Steward was not in a mood to bow to his Lords’ suggestions. Sirius watched as the Princes and leaders of Gondor exchanged covert glances, unwilling to voice their opposition to his father’s recklessness.

“Not if a captain remains who has still the courage to do his lord’s will?” Orion said, as he looked pointedly in Sirius’ direction.

Silence once more.

His father knew his impulsive nature, his hatred of being accused of cowardice. Orion was goading him. To do his father’s will was madness, certain failure, a rout. Did his own father detest him so? Yet if there was one thing that he pitied, it was his father’s loss of his cherished son. He had loved Regulus too. Perhaps nought mattered now to Orion, the future of his name and line in ruins before him. What good could he ever hope to accomplish, flawed as he was, Sirius thought bitterly.

And besides, if he did not yield, one of his own kinsmen would. That was reason enough.

“Since you are robbed of Regulus, I will go and do what I can in his stead – if you command it,” Sirius said.

“I do,” said Orion.

“Father,” said Sirius, bowing to him.

He had thought of asking his father to think better of him if he should return, but that was folly. He could not recall a time when he had pleased his father. He swayed and leaned against his father’s chair. He had only just returned to the City with what remained of his company, having fought valiantly against many foes. He had yet to tend to his wounds, and the stench of Mordor lay heavy on his heart, settling like a layer of ash on his endurance, fuelling his doubt.

“You are weary, I see,” Orion said, looking his son up and down. “Go and obtain new armour and clean greaves and bracers*, you cannot lead the men of Gondor into battle looking like a common marauder. Your behaviour astounds me, though in truth it should no longer surprise me, proof once more of how little you honour the title and position bestowed upon you. You never fail to disgrace yourself. Prepare to leave within the hour.”

Sirius’ grey eyes blazed. His father had always hated his love of casual clothes, often dressing like an ordinary citizen as a youth. But he had been ordered to present himself to the Council as soon as he had entered the City, and had done so, without a drop of water, still in his dinted armour and blood-stained sleeves.

“And your cursed hair, it has grown far too long, you shall be mistaken for a peasant from the Westfold,” Orion added, looking at him with disgust. “Come hither!”

Sirius stepped forwards. Orion drew a short sword from his belt and grabbed a hold of Sirius’ silky black hair, which fell down his back tied in a simple crimson ribbon, cutting it off in one fell swoop.

“There,” Orion said, surveying Sirius’ shoulder-length hair. “Now you look like someone vaguely related to the Ancient and Most Noble Stewards of Gondor.”

There was a malice in both his tone and in his smile. Sirius could see the shocked expressions of the Lords of the land. Humiliation struck him, as though Orion had slapped his face, which Sirius had endured in front of them in the past, many’s the time. He had returned to Gondor wishing only for oblivion and sleep, to still his mind, to halt the images of Regulus which assailed him at every turn (aware that even in dreams, his brother’s death haunted him). But his father’s presence seeped vitriol and poison into every faded corner until his breath was crushed. He was beginning to feel faint, and whether that was due to his injuries, another malady, or his dealings with Orion, he could not tell.

“My Lord,” said Sirius, inclining his head minimally and leaving the room as quickly as he could.

Minerva caught him as he stumbled outside. As was her way, she seemed to know exactly what had befallen him, as though she had been present under an invisibility cloak which hid her from plain sight. She helped heal his wounds and stood over him, forcing him to eat before he left.

“Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness, Sirius,” she cautioned, placing a sure yet gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your father may not value you, but Gondor will need your help in the days ahead, and for other things than War.”

He was so tired. But now was not the time for rest. He could see his people’s faces – anxiously looking towards the River, the children’s voices absent, the city now silently watching their departure, the hollow sound of his horse’s hooves echoed down the narrow streets, closely followed by his most loyal men. Now was not the time to wallow in self-pity, he told himself.

He rode East, certain of Death.

……………………………………………

But Death had not come, not yet.

He hovered between the two worlds, stricken, wracked by a fever that would not abate.

…………………………………………

“Prongs! How utterly splendid!” said George, chatting to the future King of Gondor as they walked into the Houses of Healing. “I knew it was you, but the others didn’t believe me, they owe me a good dinner and a few breakfasts to boot!”

Imrahil glanced at Frank, a look of amazement at their easy camaraderie. Prongs laughed.

“In the high tongue of old I am _Elessar_ , the Elfstone, and _Envinyatar_ , the Renewer,” he said, lifting the green stone from his breastplate, the same emerald as his true love’s eyes. ”But Prongs shall be the name of my house, if it is ever established. It will not sound so strange in the Elvish tongue, and _Arastar**_ I will be and all my household.”

Sirius heard none of this, as Aragorn entered his room alone, and took Sirius’ hand in his own and placed his other hand on his fevered brow.

“He is nearly spent, yet it is not due to this wound. There is a heaviness over him of another cause. I sense much weariness, grief for his father’s mood, and the Kadavra Breath,” Aragorn said, kneeling beside him.

Sirius could hear a distant voice calling him, far off it sounded, like a dim echo in a dark, tangled forest, or a sigh blown by the sea breezes off the Bay of Belfalas. Gradually it drew nearer, a strong voice, not that of a stranger, but of a brother. A power that could not be denied, a clarion call. With great force of will, he compelled himself to heed the command, until his eyes opened, and he found himself in a dim-lit room. A cool breeze was blowing the silken curtains through the open window, and the fading orange skies cast shadows on the dark-haired man kneeling before him, looking worn but relieved. A soothing fragrance filled the room, reminding him of wild basil***.

“My Lord, you called me,” he said, his voice hoarse and weak, yet filled with joy, knowing without doubt that there knelt the King of Gondor returned.

“I did,” the man replied, squeezing Sirius’ hand once more and smiling at him. “You must rest, and heal, Lord Sirius, my brother, so as to be ready when I return.”

And then he was gone, and Sirius was alive.

……………………………………….

Alone he walked in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, his heart heavy, his eyes straining to the East, wishing he could have followed the King of Gondor into battle. His body was mending, yet he felt a growing agitation. He was a brave, clever, and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in idleness while they believe others to be in danger.

“Lord Sirius,” the Warden called.

He turned and beheld Remus Lupin, the Knight of Rohan, for the first time. His heart took pity on him at once – for he saw that he was hurt, and filled with a deep sorrow and distress, yet proud.

“I am well cared for, my lord,” said Remus, bowing before him. “But I must ask for your permission to leave here. I came in search of death in battle, and I cannot continue to lie here useless, like a caged animal, while the enemy strikes.”

“What would you have me do, my lord?” said Sirius, who empathised fully with his dismay, recognising in Remus his very own restlessness. “I too am captive against my wishes, a prisoner of the Healers. It tears against my very nature to remain here, when I long to be of aid to my people.”

He could not take his eyes off Remus. The man was lithe and agile, tall, at least as tall as himself, his amber eyes glowed in the setting sun, the golden highlights in his curls affording him an almost elven beauty, the faded scars which graced his face seemed as though written there in Ithildin, more beautiful than any painting. He longed to trace the scars, to follow the hidden ones beneath his billowing shirt, to ease his suffering. It seemed to him that the Rider of Rohan’s beauty and mingled grief would pierce his very soul. He knew that all must read the tenderness in his eyes.

“I wish to leave,” Remus said quietly. “I wish to ride to war like my brother Frank, or better yet, like Théoden King.”

Sirius knew that the King of Rohan was dead.

“It is too late to follow the captains now, for verily I swear to you if that were possible, I would join you and them in battle too. Yet death in battle may soon overtake us, and we will be of greater use to our kinsmen if we heal and rebuild our strength while we wait **.** It is not in my nature to be patient, as I have oft learned to my own detriment, yet patiently we must endure, together.”

Remus nodded sadly, a single tear tracked down his cheek, which he brushed away hurriedly and looked away.

“My window does not look East…” he said in a low voice.

“That shall be remedied immediately, Remus of Rohan,” Sirius said, smiling at Remus. “And perhaps you may join me in the gardens, if you so wish? It would ease my cares.”

Remus looked at him as though with confusion.

**…………………………….**

Days passed and still they met daily, high upon the walls of Gondor, overlooking the plains.

Remus could feel a gladness vying with the loneliness which had taken up residence in his heart from his youth. Long had he endured thus in Rohan, living under the shadow of the curse of Fenrir, the monstrous wolf, Vanargand the Terrible. Remus’ father Lyall had ensnared the creature, after years of pursuit, and dealt it a mortal wound, jeering the stricken wolf in the company of his men, assuming the beast to be dead. Later that night, in its last throes, it had sought its cruel revenge, entering Edoras unseen, and assailing Remus as he slept. Theodwyn, his mother, had cut off its head, but not before Fenrir had bitten Remus in the thigh, thus forcing him to transform into a raving werewolf once a month for the rest of his days. He had been kept in the background, for his own safety and the safety of his people, living in relative obscurity in the King’s household, and once he reached manhood, under the care of King Théoden’s Chief Advisor. He had watched, helpless, as his uncle the King has fallen deeper under the venomous influence of Wormtail. The same man who every full moon shackled him to the walls of the secret cave, built underneath the outskirts of Edoras, believed to be a haunted place, to keep the innocent townsfolk away. Wormtail, who every month had diligently given him the wulfsbane potion to drink. How anguished had he felt each time it failed to destroy the curse, how bitter his disappointment. Wormtail had offered him comfort, sympathy, understanding. Seasons had passed, and he had been too slow to understand the cunning mind that had cut him off from his kin, from his passions, from his friends. When had he ceased to question why Wormtail kept him chained for two nights before the full moon, citing ancient lore, festivals to the gods, reparations? When had he accepted without question the ever-worsening injuries after his transformations, resulting in more and more time in Wormtail’s care? A growing unease filled him, seeing Wormtail watching him lustfully under his lids and haunting his steps. Vaguely he recalled a growing revulsion towards the older man, for which he rebuked himself angrily. Yet fool though he had been, slowly he had come to the realisation that something was wrong. He had confronted Wormtail, accused him of falsehood.

“Leave me alone, you snake! Did you think you could force your affections on me?” he shuddered, grabbing Wormtail by the throat.

“Oh, but you _are_ alone, completely alone now. Who knows what you have spoken to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all your life seems to shrink, the walls of your bower closing in about you, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in? Can you give me your word that another of King Théoden’s men exists with the skills and spells to keep you chained, and save your people from the monster which howls at the moon?” Wormtail spat out.

He was silent then. Perhaps there were others with the requisite skills to restrain him, but he could not be sure. And the fear of bringing death and destruction onto his own people was stronger than his hatred of Wormtail, and of his sad and wretched existence.

“You are a monster, Remus of Rohan, a beast. None among the Rohirrim will ever love you, werewolf and soulless being, save this faithful servant of yours, whom you are so quick to despise. Someday soon, you will surrender to my will, you will see the error of your ways,” Wormtail said, leering at him.

“I will never love you,” Remus said, letting go of Wormtail in disgust.

“You may have little choice,” Wormtail hissed, shrinking towards the side of the room.

“I would rather die!” Remus shouted after him, closing his eyes momentarily.

So, over long years, he had learned to remain strong, alone, silent; cold and aloof as a shield of ice. Filled with a sense of his own worthlessness, longing for freedom, for the chance to defend his King and his people.

When Remus first cast eyes on Aragorn, the ice had begun to thaw. This noble, beautiful stranger who had rescued the King, saved him from Wormtail, and ended his days of misery. And truly there was something different about him, unlike any other man or woman he had ever longed for. For while the men of Rohan were courageous, and fair, they had never been kind to him, his entire household blind to his suffering; a suffering that Aragorn had perceived. Remus had looked at him – had witnessed his pity, compassion, nobility, unmatched skill with the sword, illustrious strength in battle. And verily, his feelings of gratitude had blossomed into ardent love when the dark-haired man had made him a potion of wulfsbane himself, urging him to drink it ere the full moon. He had not recognised the taste, and he had not transformed. Torn between rage at Wormtail’s years of betrayal, and lifelong gratefulness towards his saviour, he had hugged Aragorn tenderly. Was not Aragorn everything that one could wish for in a man? He had allowed himself to feel, and in doing so, had allowed himself to fall deeply and passionately in love with the Ranger. Without knowledge that Aragorn’s heart was already gifted to another.

His hope had faded. But not his will to fight.

He had gone to seek Death.

And Death had found him, surely, during the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, as he confronted the Witch-Queen of Angmar, Bellatrix of the Nazgûl, while his beloved King Théoden lay mortally wounded.

"I will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye,” Bellatrix had gloated, laughing wildly. "No living man may hinder me!"

Remus had removed his helmet and stared at her with defiance.

“But no living man am I! You look upon a gaur. I am Remus, son of Éomund. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him!” Remus said.

And he had killing the Witch-Queen, with Fred’s help, thus fulfilling Glorfindel's prophecy a thousand years earlier, even as the Kevadra Breath overwhelmed him. Yet he lived still. Aragorn had healed him in body and had left him bereft once more. Thus he remained in Gondor, once more useless, once more caged. Alone.

But looking at this beautiful, dark-haired man, Sirius son of Orion, he felt something in him melt. There was a guarded softness to this stranger, and a tenderness, yet also a deep unhappiness, not unlike his own.

“How should I ease your cares, my lord?” he asked quietly.

Sirius did not answer, but a bitter smile graced his face, and Remus noted his startingly clear grey eyes, like silver starlight, his sharp jaw, his elegant long neck, the straight raven hair which fell down his shoulders, unadorned.

“It may be that only a few days are left before the darkness overtakes us, and I am weary of bearing every burden alone,” Sirius said, gazing at the plains below, now filled with a dim mist. “I should like some company, from one fellow prisoner to another?”

The wind was rising, and Remus thought he caught a hint of rose upon the other man’s pale cheeks. And something like pity stirred deep in his heart, although he could not recognise it.

“I will walk with you a while, though my heart may be far, whither all our hopes have gone,” Remus said, wishing to be kind.

And thus seven days had passed, and the Healers had noted the laughter arising from the gardens, watched Sirius gently teasing Remus as he tried to teach him how to play the Harp of Gondor, wrapping his strong arms around the fair-haired man’s shoulders, as he positioned his long fingers on the strings, at other times tenderly placing a stray tendril of curls carefully behind Remus’ ear. They had watched Remus engage the Steward of Gondor in training, their spears glittering in the sun as they found their skills well matched. They had watched Remus engage Sirius in conversation, haltingly, unwillingly at first, out of pure politeness. Yet before long they perceived a different quality - bold and full of spirit, a warmth in his amber eyes. His tongue was sharp and full of wit, yet he was kind and gracious. And the look on Sirius’ face as they talked, the peels of laughter? It reminded the Warden of High Summer, indeed his pallor and gloom and gaunt cheeks had been replaced by a golden glow, a sparkle in his wistful, stormy eyes, an endearing liveliness and a dashing energy.

Only when they turned towards the East that noon, did a quiet darkness descend once more. Then a great wind arose as they stood beside each other, and Remus shivered, and Sirius wrapped an arm protectively around the other man’s shoulder. The wind picked up their hair, raven and golden, until it intertwined, and Remus took Sirius’ hand and laced their fingers together, his touch strong and firm. Softly they spoke then, and so it came to be that Sirius learned of Remus’ curse and of his stolen years in Edoras. And Remus heard of Sirius’ treatment at the hand of his father. And Sirius’ eyes blazed with righteous anger when he learnt of Wormtail’s craven deeds, of what he had hoped to gain once Saruman won, and he took Remus’ hands in his own and squeezed them tight, unable to speak. And somehow that meant more to Remus than any words the other man could have said to him. And a lump stuck in his throat when Remus heard about Sirius’ father throwing him into prison, and his ill-treatment of his eldest son in front of his men.

“I am sorry,” he said, though his voice shook. “He should never have behaved thusly. You did not deserve such-“

“Nay, I fear I probably did,” Sirius said, with a hollow laugh. “I could not keep my tongue, I insisted on antagonising my father, despite knowing of his ill- tempered violence and of-“

“Do not lie to me,” Remus said firmly, narrowing his eyes. “You were but a child, and no man deserves such treatment, especially not one so brave and loyal as you.”

Sirius shook his head.

“I was always a bitter disappointment to my father; if anything, seeing me here as the war drew nearer seemed to wound him the more. Would that I had died instead of my brother! Regulus was well-loved among our people, and I loved him too. Often he tried to shield me from my father’s harshest punishments. I miss him dearly. His very presence would have given my father hope. Alas, without his favourite son at his side, his mind succumbed to despair, I was not enough.”

Remus had heard rumours that Orion had tried to kill Sirius in his delirium, but he dared not mention it now, lest the dark-haired man remained unaware of his father’s ruin.

“Tell me not that you still wish to have taken Regulus’ place?” Remus murmured, bracing his shoulders.

The strength of his arms seemed to fill Sirius with surprise. The veins on the back of Remus’ hands and forearms stood out, like a marble statue brought to life. Concern and pity were like a fire in his gaze, yet he thought he saw Sirius’ heart soar on hearing his thoughts.

“I do not,” said Sirius, a sad smile spreading across his handsome face. “And you, my lord, do you still wish for the stroke of doom?”

“No,” said Remus, looking into his face. “My heart is glad, and it feels like a shadow has lifted, and my limbs are light. A hope comes to me, though I know not why.”

And he answered: “Do you not know?”

A breathlessness seemed to overtake Remus now, the air felt thin, as though too near the clouds. Sirius’ eyes shone with a passion that consumed him.

“Our friendship, your kindness towards me, and your pity for my sorry tale,” said Remus, lapsing into silence.

“I do not offer you my pity!” said Sirius, moving his face closer to the horseman. “For you are a man high and valiant, and though you may have won renown for your deeds against the Witch-Queen of Angmar, I hold you more valiant still for bearing the burden of your curse alone over long, dark years. I know not how you endured it, and pity your sorrow I did, wishing only to have saved you from the anguish. But I love you, Remus of Rohan, and were you the blissful King of Gondor, still I would adore you. My impetuous nature is notorious, ever have I worn my heart on my sleeve, and if I have offended you, my lord, I beg your forgiveness.”

They stood so close that Remus could hear the wild beating of Sirius’ heart. He breathed deeply, feeling a shift in the air – wild flowers, sunlit meadows, and the fresh vigour of the Sea.

“Forgive me,” said Sirius, pulling back with a slight frown.

“Be quiet, Sirius,” said Remus, finding his voice at last, and surging forwards.

And wind was hushed now, the clouds parted, and he took Sirius in his arms and kissed him under the bright sunlight, caring not that all and sundry could see them.

They broke apart, breathless, and Sirius smiled back at him, his face transformed.

“Yet you deserve more than me, my lord, you deserve a happy ending,” said Remus, glancing back at the other man, as though uncertain. “Not to spend the rest of your days with a cursed creature.”

“Hush, Ithildin!” said Sirius, tracing the scar across his cheek reverently and kissing his lips once more. “The wulfsbane is but a trifling matter, and what care I if my husband retreats to his bed once a month, as long as that husband is the fairest lord I ‘er beheld?”

Remus’ laugh was like a balm – surprise and delight in equal measure.

“Methinks you are not renown for your keen eyesight, Silmë****,” said Remus, his eyes dancing joyfully. “Gil-galad I shall re-name thee, for henceforth thou shalt be my guiding light and none shall burn so brightly, outshining all others, in beauty unsurpassed.”

Sirius stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Come, my lord, think you that Elves alone can fashion into words the fairness they behold? In Rohan I devoured every book we held at Edoras, and my father collected many more for me ‘ore he died. Much lore did I consume from Gondor and beyond, and the tales of the Noldorin and Numenorians are well known to me!” said Remus, enjoying the other man’s astonishment.

“I am not oft lost for words,” Sirius muttered, a roguish grin making his tired face appear suddenly young and carefree. “But it seems at last Gondor has found one with the power to silence me. Many will thank you for it, my lord!”

“Be quiet, Silmë, and kiss me!” said Remus.

Then a ray of sunlight surrounded them in dazzling light, and they kissed once more, and the people were glad, for they loved Sirius deeply, and even before Ravenclaw, the Great Eagle, returned bearing glad tidings, they sang for joy. And the Warden knew that henceforth Silver would be the colour of the banner of the Captain of the White Tower, the same colour as his eyes, the colour of the waters of Anduin the Great, Ithildin and the brightest star.

.........................................

*Greaves (protection for the lower legs) and bracers (protection for the lower arms)

** Aras = Sindarin for deer

*** I always imagined that Athelas smelled like basil. The name basil means "royal/kingly plant", possibly because the plant was believed to have been used in production of royal perfumes. The Latin name has been confused with basilisk as it was supposed to be an antidote to the basilisk's venom (how apt for a Harry Potter crossover fic!)

****Silmë= Quenya for starlight

Gil-galad - the name means star of bright radiance

P.S. Yes, I know that Wormtongue’s speech is actually said by Gandalf in the books, but I decided to stick to the film here as it seemed apt.

P.S. After Caradoc ran away, he met Benjy of the Fens and they lived happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, it could have been worse, that’s all I’m saying!! Any comments or thoughts welcome, from LOTR and marauders’ fans alike!


End file.
